Jace looked up. “Yes.”
“Tomorrow’s sheet?”
He patted the notebook. “In here. Old one recycled. Very environmentally responsible.”
“Good.”
This time I chose the word deliberately.
His smile faltered at the edges, not disappearing, just turning private for a second before he looked back down at Tiny. “Your dog’s embarrassing you.”
“He does that.”
“He can come live with me if he wants.”
“He’s high maintenance.”
Jace scratched under Tiny’s chin. “Again. Relatable.”
There was humor in it, but not only humor. I heard the echo of his earlier words. I hate giving people more proof.
I wanted, unexpectedly and inconveniently, to tell him that high maintenance wasn’t the same as not worth maintaining.
I didn’t.
I tugged Tiny’s leash. “Let the man go to media.”
Tiny refused to move.
Jace laughed and stood, brushing dog hair off his pants. “See you tomorrow, Coach.”
“You’ll see me in video first.”
He made a face. “Threats already?”
“Schedule.”
“Cruel.”
He walked away toward the media room, notebook still under his arm.
Tiny watched him until he turned the corner.
“So did I,” I realized, a second too late.
That night, the house was quiet again.
Olivia texted from Atlanta to say her flight had been pushed to the morning. She added a frustrated string of emojis, then a photo of a hotel salad that looked worse than my chicken. I replied with appropriate sympathy and a picture of Tiny lying across the couch with the stolen towel still around his neck.
She sent back, He misses me.
I typed, We both do.
I stared at it.
Then I deleted the sentence and sent, He’s dramatic.
Her reply came with a laughing face, then nothing.
